Orchestral Maneuvers of Steele – Story 9
by Camargue
Summary: My ninth tale of Laura and Remington's 'literary fifth season'. This is a whodunnit. Or maybe a whydunnit? Anyway, like all of my stories, it can be read on its own, without much background knowledge of the show or my other stories. Don't wait for all my tales to be finished anyway – I'm writing them as and when I get inspired. My stories are faithful to the series canon.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The middle aged blond woman, wearing a dark green, three-quarter length cocktail dress, hopped up onto the small stage and stood by the microphone. "Ladies, I'm sure you'll be glad to know that that is it for the formal speeches," she said. There was a ripple of laughter from her audience. "Let me just extend my thanks again to our keynote speaker, Congresswoman Barbara Boxer – I'm sure you'll agree it was a truly inspiring talk about how to make it as a woman in the tough world of male politics. Please join me in giving her another round of applause."

The assembled audience, the majority elegantly dressed in evening clothes, with a few people here and there in business attire, clapped politely.

"Let me also thank our hosts tonight, the Ebell Club of Los Angeles – this wonderful old Italianate building has been the perfect place to host our reception, and such an appropriate venue. What could have been more suitable than one of Los Angeles's oldest women's clubs to host this meeting of the California Working Women's Network?" There was another round of applause from the two hundred or so people seated in the ornate, 1920s room.

"Now," the speaker continued, "the main reason we're here, of course, is to network with each other. So, I hope you will all find it very fruitful. Ladies: our women's network helps everyone of our sex, in a small way, to advance in the work place in Los Angeles – please remember that! Please circulate, and I hope that many new business relationships – and even friendships – are formed tonight. Congresswoman Boxer will be here, and I'm sure she'll take the opportunity to try and talk to as many of you as she can. Enjoy the food – there is a wonderful buffet being served in the dining room next door – and I hope you have a very stimulating evening.

"And one last word, to the gentlemen that are here tonight – thank you! All our members of the California Working Women's Network appreciate the role of the men in their lives. Tonight, husbands and boyfriends take the role usually played by us ladies – the supportive role; you may be the 'wives' tonight, but we hope you have a wonderful time as well!"

There was swell of laughter at the speaker's last joke, and then the audience began to break up into small groups. Acquaintance waved to acquaintance, and as waiters circulated with trays of drinks, people naturally formed into huddles and knots. Some of the attendees made straight for the buffet spread out on tables in the adjoining dining room, while others spilled out into the colonnaded garden of the magnificent clubhouse.

Laura Steele rose from her seat, and whispered to her husband, Remington Steele, "Remember, darling – you're the 'wife' tonight!"

Remington Steele scowled and let out only a low grunt in reply. Laura grinned.

The Steeles followed the crowd from the lounge into the dining room, where people were milling about, some already with food, others hovering by the tables. Remington nabbed a passing waiter and picked up two glasses of champagne, passing one to Laura. "Hmm, rather good, Laura," he said, after an appreciative sip. "Vintage Bollinger, if I'm not wrong. It seems that this women's network of yours has spared no expense for tonight."

"I'm not surprised – there are some very powerful women who are members. The Congresswoman gave up her evening to speak to us."

"She was impressive, wasn't she?"

"You sound surprised, Mr Steele?"

"I, surprised? Er, not at all, Laura. You know how supportive I am of women's liberation – I never underestimate women."

"Hard won experience, no doubt?" Laura said with a meaningful look.

"Hard, certainly, Mrs Steele – hard, certainly."

A gaggle of very smartly dressed ladies came up and surrounded Laura, all of them – it seemed to Steele – talking at the same time. Steele, in his role as the 'wife', took a step back to give them more room. He watched Laura, now laughing, now chatting with the women; usually a slightly shy person, she seemed comfortable here tonight, in the company of these corporate hotshots and high-achieving women.

"And who is this, Laura?" asked an elegant, fifty-something woman with medium-length, bobbed blond hair.

"Oh, please excuse me," said Laura. "Ladies: this is my husband, Remington Steele."

"Remington Steele!" exclaimed a younger brunette, wearing a black, sleeveless evening dress. "Laura, I didn't realize you were _that_ Laura Steele."

"My better half, ladies," said Steele gallantly, shaking hands with several women whom he didn't know. "Laura is, undoubtedly, my better half."

"Perhaps you should change the name of your agency to Laura Steele Investigations?" joked another, as laughter erupted from the whole group.

Laura herself surreptitiously winked at Remington; he looked a little put out, but kept the smile plastered on his face. "Remington," she said, rescuing him from the tittering, "would you be a godsend, and find a waiter? I'm sure we could all do with another drink." He smiled expansively, disengaged himself from the two ladies that were clinging onto his arms, and sidled away.

Remington looked back after he'd escaped, to see Laura had fallen back into animated conversation with yet another group of women. Like the first group, they were expensively coiffured and beautifully dressed, mainly in evening clothes. He made his way to the buffet table, and picked up another glass of champagne. This reception and 'networking event' was part of the new movement for 1980s emancipation, as white collar women were pushing higher and higher into the corporate world. Laura had been a member for quite a while and took her membership seriously – as she did with everything associated with the agency. Remington Steele Investigations was her life's accomplishment and Steele understood how much its success, and its high profile, meant to Laura.

Occasionally, as he circulated, someone would come up and introduce themselves to him, or begin a conversation when they recognized his face from the media. Steele bore these conversations with his usual charm and grace, happy to talk to strangers about inconsequential nothings, be it the weather – which was nearly always the same in Los Angeles, these people should visit London – or the importance of helping women succeed in the work place. Sometimes, through the crowd, he would see Laura chatting with other women, often exchanging business cards or flicking through her small diary – no doubt arranging further mutual networking meetings or lunches with ladies who lunched.

Steele liked to watch Laura – she was the most beautiful woman in the room. She was dressed in a dark chocolate, full length, Bob Mackie evening gown and black high-heeled sandals, with only a necklace of black onyx and matching earrings as her jewelry. She was carrying a jeweled evening purse, which she would open now and then to fish out business cards or her diary. Usually, Laura put her hair up whenever she dressed formally, but tonight she had left it loose and it flowed around her shoulders, naturally falling into a soft side parting on the left; the bangs at the front were finally growing out and Laura's hair looked to Steele very similar to how it had been a couple of years earlier, before she had cut it – light and billowing. Steele was never sure if Laura's legs or her hair were her best feature; his opinion depended on his mood.

Laura disengaged herself from the group of women she was talking to and came over to him. "Hello, Mr Steele," she greeted him. "On your own?"

"Uhm...just taking a time out."

"Shall we have a look at the buffet?" Remington nodded assent and they gravitated towards the long table. No expense had been spared organizing this reception, and there were a dozen servers at the buffet table. Steele and Laura were handed plates by one of them, and they perused what was on offer.

"Ah, the very cutting edge of 1980s West Coast finger food," said Steele, reading the little tags next to each platter. "Caviar, Grilled Oysters in their Shells, Japanese Temari, Pigs in a Blanket, Angels on Horseback, Devils on Horseback, Crab Rangoon, Pineapple Rumaki, Miniature Quiche Florentine, Blinis with Smoked Salmon, Pacific Shrimp in Cocktail Sauce, Organic Swedish Meatballs, Grissini, Cantaloupe Slices Wrapped with Iberico Ham, Shish Kabob, Mini Wiener Schnitzel, Brätwurst in a Mustard & Apricot Glaze, Seven Kinds of Olives. And not forgetting five kinds of sushi, of course! My goodness, what a melting pot this city is, eh? Although I think this fashion for sushi will be a passing fad – I can't see it lasting in the future."

"Are you here to give a food review, or are we going to eat?" Laura said with a roll of her eyes.

"Alright, Laura! I didn't realize you got so testy when you were hungry!"

Laura ignored her husband, and instead held her plate out to the servers, who placed a few of the items on it. Steele followed suit.

"Laura!" said a voice behind them, and turning, they saw the blond woman in the green dress that had spoken from the podium. "I'm so glad I saw you!"

"Oh, hi," said Laura with a wide smile. The two women kissed each other's cheeks. "Paula, this is my husband, Remington Steele," she introduced. "This is Paula Gifford, the Chairwoman of the California Working Women's Network."

Steele flashed his most charming grin as he shook hands with the elegantly-dressed blond; she looked to be about forty, and was expensively groomed and very glamorous. "Mrs Gifford," he said, "let me congratulate you on the success of this evening – a wonderful event! We were just admiring the delicious looking buffet."

"It's Miss Gifford – but please, call me Paula. And please do help yourself – we tried so hard with the catering."

"Thank you, Paula; please call me Remington. And this building is magnificent – a very suitable venue indeed."

"That was your wife's suggestion."

"Oh, really? I didn't know that," Steele said, looking at Laura. "She hides her light under a bushel sometimes."

"The Ebell Club has been a place for women to gather and assist each other for over sixty years – it seemed a fitting place for a network of modern career women to meet," said Paula Gifford enthusiastically.

"It's a wonderful building," said Laura. "It's like an Italian villa dropped down here, on Wilshire Boulevard."

"You should both go and look at the garden – it's as if you were in Tuscany. But Laura, do you think Remington would mind if I dragged you away for a second? I want to introduce you to Congresswoman Boxer. Come on!" Paula Gifford tugged Laura by the arm, and she just had time to hand her plate to Remington before disappearing from his sight. Steele, suddenly left holding his champagne glass and two plates of food, was nonplussed; he thought he was about to drop everything onto the floor when one of the waiters came to his rescue.

He had found a relatively quiet spot, and was overdosing on caviar on brown toast, when a waiter pulled him aside with a message that there was a telephone call for him. He led the way to a small, book-lined sitting room on the second floor. Steele was surprised to see Fred when he entered. "Sorry to have called you away from the reception, Sir, but there was an urgent call on the car phone. I had it transferred in here."

Steele nodded acknowledgement as Fred left, then picked up the receiver, "Steele here."

"Remington? Oh, thank goodness I finally reached you. Please – you must help me! Can you come at once?" said a woman's agitated voice that sounded familiar to him.

"Er, I'm sorry, but who is this?"

"It's Cleo – Cleo Taplinger."

"Cleo Taplinger? Good Lord! It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has. Remington, I'm sorry to trouble you so late, but I wouldn't have called you unless it was important. I am in desperate straits and need help. Can you come tonight?"

"Now? But I'm at a party, Cleo. What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"I'm okay. This is not a personal call, it's business. But it's very important; I'm desperate. There's been a theft at my workplace – millions of dollars are at stake – and so is my job, I think. I…I couldn't think of anyone else who could help me, and you're a private investigator – it's what you do. Please, will you come? Time is of the essence!"

"Very well...I'll be there as soon as I can get away. Where are you?"

"At the Shrine Auditorium – I'm sure you must know it. I'll be waiting for you, Remington. And thank you!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Steele returned to the reception, stopping on the way to send a message through a waiter to Fred to have the limousine ready. Laura was chatting to a group of ladies including one he recognized as the keynote speaker, Congresswoman Barbara Boxer. He discreetly pulled Laura aside.

"Laura, I just had a rather panicky phone call from someone I know who's in trouble; it's a professional matter – a theft. Would you mind if I made a discreet exit? I'll see what's up, and come back here as soon as possible, hmm?"

"Who was it? What has happened?"

"It's a woman called Cleo Taplinger, an old friend of mine. She works for a charity, and it seems that millions of dollars have gone missing within the last few hours, so she called me. I don't know any more, but she was rather spooked on the telephone and asked me to come as soon as possible. I said I would."

"It's a case then! She wants Remington Steele, the detective? I'll come with you."

"What about the reception? Your networking tonight?"

"I've been at it for an hour – I'm about all networked out, actually. And it's an emergency, you said – so duty calls. I'll make our excuses and we can go."

Laura and Remington briefly said goodbyes to Paula Gifford, Congresswoman Boxer and various other acquaintances, then made their way outside, where Fred was waiting at the kerb. Remington directed him to the Shrine Auditorium downtown.

"The Shrine Auditorium?" queried Laura, once they were ensconced in the back seat of the car. "That's a strange destination, isn't it? What's she doing there?"

"Er, I'm not sure. She works for an artistic charity – perhaps they had some sort of event there tonight?"

"Who is she? I don't remember you mentioning anyone called…Cleo, was it?" asked Laura.

"Uhm…we used to date, actually, Laura – quite a while ago. As I said to you, I hadn't heard from her in a long time," said Steele hurriedly.

Laura's voice was edgier than she had meant it to be, "You used to date? Oh dear, another _femme fatale_ from your past, is she?"

"No, no! Good Lord, no! We knew each other in Los Angeles, after I first came here," replied Steele, aware of how flustered he sounded to himself. "So nothing to do with my mysterious past, eh?" he added with a forced smile.

"I see. And how long did the two of you 'date'?"

"Uhm...a few months, maybe? Really, Laura, it was a long time ago – long before you and I were...you know…"

"Of course," Laura replied curtly, before letting the matter drop. She looked out of the window as they headed east towards Downtown and the Shrine Auditorium. She wasn't sure why, but while she felt relieved that this woman was not someone from Remington's 'mysterious past' before he had come to America, she felt unaccountably irritated that it was a woman he had dated. She knew that there had been a lot of such women – perhaps that was it?

For his part, Steele stared out of the car window on his side, conscious of the silence between them.

Fred pulled up outside the Shrine Auditorium, and as he and Laura descended from the limo, Steele looked up at the enormous, pink colored theater. One of the largest in Los Angeles, it had been built in the 1920s in an ornate and exotic Middle Eastern style. It was impressive, with two large towers book-ending the huge, colonnaded entrance porch. The lights were blazing, but the doors were closed; on a night when there had been a performance, there would have been throngs of people in the street in front of the theater. But there was obviously no performance at the theater tonight, and the street was almost deserted, like much of downtown Los Angeles. It was a strange city – the vast majority of the population lived in the suburbs and everyone drove everywhere, so Downtown was run down, depopulated and dangerous. Most of LA's citizens seldom ventured into the city center in the evenings, leaving it the domain of those who lived in the shadows: the semi-criminal, drug addicts and the homeless. Downtown was a place to be driven through in the security of one's car, while _en route _to one's safe, suburban home.

Remington and Laura walked up to the huge, Moorish glass doors and a uniformed doorman let them inside. As they stepped into the lavishly decorated, rococo lobby, a dark haired woman walked towards them. "Remington!" she said, a half-hearted smile of greeting on her face giving way to a frown as she came up to Steele and Laura. "Thank you for coming. I hope you can help me, for old time's sake!" She kissed Steele on his left cheek, holding both his hands in hers.

"Hello, Cleo. How are you?" asked Steele, toning down his natural friendliness a notch, conscious of Laura's presence.

"Not too bad, I suppose. You look well. And a tuxedo? I'm sorry to have dragged you away from your party."

"You did catch us out on the town, Cleo. Let me introduce you to my wife, Laura Steele."

"Ah…I read about your marriage in the newspaper. My congratulations. So this the lucky woman?"

"Oh, I think it's the other way around!" said Steele, with a bonhomie he did not quite feel at that moment. He was aware of Laura's penetrating gaze as she had watched the entire scene up to that point. "Laura – may I present Miss Cleo Taplinger," he finished.

Cleo Taplinger smiled as she greeted Laura, "Congratulations, Mrs Steele. Although I must say, you're not the type I would have expected to land Remington."

"Oh, I'm an experienced fisherman," Laura said with a thin smile, as she shook the brunette's hand. Laura sized her up; she was about thirty, of medium height, and her hair was almost black – naturally a little curlier and darker than Laura's own. She was wearing a dark blue, belted dress and black, two-inch heels: smart working clothes. Laura thought her quite attractive, with sharp, symmetrical features and pale skin contrasting with her black hair.

"Why don't you come with me to the Executive Manager's office?" said Cleo Taplinger, as she led them away towards a grand staircase.

"What's exactly happened, Cleo?" queried Steele. "On the telephone, you sounded quite desperate. You said millions of dollars had been stolen?"

"Not money, Remington, but a musical instrument worth millions of dollars. A Stradivarius violin has gone missing – stolen!"

"When did this happen?" asked Laura, her distracting thoughts about this woman from Remington's past pushed aside by the mystery; suddenly, without even knowing it consciously, Laura was in detective mode.

"I should start at the beginning, really," said Cleo Taplinger, as they climbed another elaborately carved staircase, ascending higher into the theatre's upper levels. "The charity I work for is sponsoring a series of concerts by a visiting orchestra from Chile. The gala performance is tomorrow night, here at the Shrine Auditorium..."

"An orchestra?" said Laura, her curiosity as a lover of classical music piqued. "What are they playing?"

"Oh, is it relevant? The main pieces on the program are Beethoven's _Violin Concerto_ and Brahms's _Violin Concerto_."

"Sorry to have interrupted – please continue."

"This afternoon, the orchestra was here, doing a practice performance – getting used to the acoustics and that kind of thing. They took a break at about six o'clock, and when they were due to continue, about half an hour later, the principal soloist – a violinist, Eva-Maria Contardo – came on stage and started screaming that her Stradivarius had been taken from her dressing room."

"That was at six-thirty?" queried Laura. She took hold of Remington's wrist and looked at his gold, Cartier Tank watch – she never wore a watch herself when she was in evening clothes; it was just before eight-thirty. "That was two hours ago. What's been happening in the meantime?"

"We're here. I'll let the others explain things."

They entered a large, ornately decorated office, which was fully in keeping with the Moorish style of the theatre. The floor was thickly carpeted, the walls wooden panelled, with elaborate sconces and cornicing everywhere. There were two men in the room; a blond man of about fifty sitting behind an antique wooden desk, and a swarthier, younger man with jet black hair and black, plastic spectacles, sitting in a visitor's chair. They both rose as Laura and Steele entered, and the blond man began, "Mr Steele? Thank goodness you've come. I'm the manager of the Shrine Auditorium – Mike Lindstrom. And this is Señor Carlos Rojas, the Chief Executive of the Orquesta Nacional de Chile." Looking at Steele and Laura's evening clothes, he continued, "But I see that we've dragged you away from some engagement! Please forgive us for the imposition."

"That's quite alright, Mr Lindstrom," said Steele smoothly, nodding a greeting to both men. "Tell us what happened."

They all sat in various chairs gathered from around the room as Lindstrom began, "The Chileans are in the United States on a cultural goodwill tour, to mark the friendship between our two countries. I'm not sure how much Miss Taplinger told you, but her charity, the California Artistic Association, has sponsored this tour. Anyway, the opening concert is tomorrow evening. The orchestra were here practicing this afternoon. Mr Johnson gave them a rest break at six, and then, just as everyone was assembling back on stage to resume the session, Eva-Maria Contardo rushed onto the stage, claiming that her violin had been stolen."

"Who is Mr Johnson?" asked Laura.

"Señor Peter Johnson is the Concertmaster of the orchestra. An American," said Carlos Rojas, staring at them as he spoke for the first time, in a thick, Spanish accent. "As you might know, the head of an orchestra's musicians is the Concertmaster – he's both the lead violinist and effectively the deputy conductor; the only person more important than the Concertmaster is the Conductor himself."

"I see; and where was the Conductor?"

The rather intense Señor Rojas answered, "The permanent conductor of the Orquesta Nacional de Chile is not here in America. This is a short tour, and it will be conducted by guest artists; it is for this reason that the Concertmaster was leading the practice session today. There is to be one more full dress rehearsal tomorrow morning, with the actual Conductor, and then the concert is in the evening."

"Who is conducting, then?"

"Maestro André Previn, of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, is the guest Conductor for tomorrow evening's concert. But he is not present today."

"I'm sorry to have interrupted – please continue with the story," said Laura, discomfited by the gaze of the swarthy Chilean.

"There was, how do you say? – uproar – when Señorita Contardo said her Stradivarius had been stolen. I was watching the practice session, so I immediately informed Mr Lindstrom."

"Who had access to her dressing room during the rest period? Was she in the room? Was it locked?" Laura asked, her brain now in investigative overdrive.

Mike Lindstrom answered, "I…I am not sure of the answers to all those questions, I am sorry. All we understood was that Miss Contardo had left the violin in her dressing room, and had not been in there herself. When she came to pick it up before returning to the stage, she found it missing."

"Well, in that case, the thief is probably long gone – they would have had a half-hour period during which to steal the violin and walk out of the theater," said Remington. "It's likely that you'll hear from them – they'll try to ransom the instrument."

"No, no! The theater was locked – except for the two of you, Mr Steele, no one has come into or left the Shrine Auditorium since four o'clock this afternoon."

"If that's true, then you're saying that the violin is still somewhere inside the building? And that the thief is someone on the inside?"

"Precisely, Mr Steele."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Let's take this in logical order," said Laura, tuning herself into work mode in a way that was second nature to her. "How can you be sure that no one has entered or left the building today?"

"The theater was shut today, so movement into and out of it has been strictly controlled," replied Mike Lindstrom. "This was, after all, a closed practice session. The front doors were always manned by doormen, who let everyone in and out, while the Stage Door at the rear was not opened at all."

"You're really implying it was an inside job?" asked Steele, unconvinced.

"Of course it was an inside job, Señor Steele! One of these theater employees has stolen the violin!" said the Chilean, Rojas.

"Now, wait just a minute," Mike Lindstrom snapped back. "I don't like the way you're throwing around accusations, Señor Rojas. I'd vouch for everyone who works for the Shrine Auditorium. I cannot believe anyone in my organization would steal a Stradivarius – everyone who works here is committed to the arts!"

"Tcha! Are you suggesting someone connected with the orchestra stole it? We are not some bunch of peasants, you know! This is the Orquesta Nacional de Chile – it was established under the patronage of the Pinochet family itself. To suggest that someone connected with the orchestra took Señorita Contardo's violin is insulting, Señor Lindstrom – insulting to me personally and to my country!"

Steele tried to forestall the two men's argument, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! This is not getting us anywhere. Isn't this supposed to be a goodwill tour?"

"Mr Steele is right," said Laura, getting the conversation back on track. "Mr Lindstrom: you yourself said that this was probably an inside job; so, accepting that at face value, tell me who is in the building at the moment."

"There's the three of us; the orchestra itself, now down on the stage; the Shrine's backstage employees – stage hands and sound technicians; the Shrine's doormen; and the orchestra's own security detail."

"And you say no one has left the building at all?"

"Mrs Steele, it's standard procedure to keep all the doors locked when the place is closed. There are comparatively few staff in the building today – no concession stand workers, bar staff or cleaners. As soon as the theft was reported, I instructed the Head Doorman to guard all the exits with his team and not to allow anyone into or out of the building, apart from the two of you," said Lindstrom.

"And my security people have also been keeping a watch on their doormen," said Carlos Rojas.

"Your security people?" queried Remington.

"Si, the orchestra has its own Chilean security team – there are eight persons."

"Eight? That's a lot of security for an orchestra, isn't it? Are you expecting attacks by enraged classical music buffs?"

Rojas scowled, "This is the national orchestra of my country, Mr Steele – a national asset. It is necessary to ensure that it is well guarded."

"And who's guarding the guardians, eh?" asked Steele with a thin smile.

Laura was now turning over the case in her head in her typical, methodical manner. "Has the building been searched?" she asked.

"The whole building? No," said Lindstrom. "We searched the star dressing room which Señorita Contardo had been given, but this is a massive building, Mrs Steele. We haven't attempted to search the whole place."

"Well, if you believe the violin is still inside the theater, then you must search the whole building. Can you do it? Have you got the manpower?"

"Hang on a minute, Laura," interjected Remington. "You'll forgive me for saying this, Mr Lindstrom, but purely from an investigative standpoint, everyone is a suspect; we can't get them to search the theater. The only option is to call the police – they're outsiders, they're completely independent, and they will have the manpower to undertake a full search of the building."

"Absolutely not! I forbid it!" shouted Carlos Rojas angrily, much to the consternation of everyone in the room. "This…this incident is a scandal – an insult to my country. It cannot be made public. Absolutely no police – we must keep this whole affair secret until the violin is recovered!"

Steele bristled at the Chilean's aggression, "And what if the violin is _not_ recovered, Señor Rojas?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"That is why we are employing you, Mr Steele. If you are competent at your job, you will recover the violin. Money is no object – I'll say now, whatever your usual charges, I'll give you ten thousand American dollars. But you must recover that violin in time for tomorrow night's concert – and its theft must not become known to the outside world. Do I make myself clear?"

"Listen, Señor Rojas, I don't like your tone. Every client gets the benefit of my agency's full attention, regardless of whether they have ten thousand dollars to flash around or not. And I haven't agreed to take the job yet – remember that! It would be the easiest thing in the world for Mrs Steele and me to walk out right now and go home!"

Cleo Taplinger, who had not spoken at all thus far, tried to calm things. "Remington, please! I'm sure Mr Rojas did not mean to convey any insult; it's just that – well, we're all under stress with this theft."

Rojas, who had stared daggers at Remington Steele on hearing his words, swallowed back his anger with a visible effort. "Señor Steele, please excuse me – I did not mean to speak so. English is not my first language, and as Señorita Taplinger says, this is a desperate situation. We need your help. I cannot permit telling the police or allowing this incident to become public – that is paramount. But we must recover the stolen Stradivarius – it is almost priceless. I know that you are extremely good at your job; your reputation goes before you. I repeat, whatever your agency's fee, the orchestra will pay it – so help us!"

Laura was familiar with Remington's temper when he was annoyed. "Gentlemen," she said, "would you excuse Mr Steele and me for a minute, to allow us to discuss your case? Thank you." She rose and walked out of Lindstrom's office into the corridor, followed by Remington.

"That bloody man!" said Steele, as soon as they were outside. He held his thumb and index finger together for illustration, "I'll tell you, Laura, I was this close – this close – to knocking his block off."

"No you weren't – you're not a violent person. You're just angry, that's all."

"Too right!"

"Icy calm, Mr Steele. Icy calm!"

"That's easy for you to say, Laura. Look – let's get out of here, eh?"

"Leave? There's a ten thousand dollar fee involved. There's no question of us turning down the case."

"You're thinking about the money? We don't need it, Laura."

"We might not _need _it, but it's a hell of a lot of money for twenty-four hours' work. After all, the worst that can happen is that we don't find the Stradivarius, we still get our fee, and no one knows that we've failed because Rojas is so intent on keeping the whole thing under wraps."

"I must say, I'm really surprised at you. What about the principle involved? Why should we work for an overbearing...what's the word – goon – like Rojas, eh?"

"What principle? The only thing involved here is that you're angry."

"That guy's a nasty piece of work. And I don't trust him either. Hasn't it struck you as odd that he's offering us such a large fee, hmm? It's far more than our normal rates – it's like he's trying too hard. Maybe _he_ stole the violin!"

"The thought crossed my mind, but it's probably just that he's desperate to get the Strad back. Ten thousand dollars would be a bargain compared to the violin's value, if we succeed."

"This is like the bad old days – you riding roughshod over my opinions."

"I'm not riding roughshod over your opinions!'"

"I would've expected you to support me on this, Laura. That's what spouses do, isn't it? For better or for worse? Ring any bells?"

"I don't know...What's the right thing for a _proper_ spouse to do? I've never been married before – so you tell me, Remington: do you want a drone who 'supports' you unconditionally? Is that what marriage is? Or do you want me to be honest?"

"Both!"

"That makes no sense!" Laura looked hurt, and glanced away from Remington for a second to gather her thoughts. "Look – we're on the same team now! I didn't realize you felt I could be that overbearing in the past," she said, even though she recognized the truth of Remington's accusation. "If I was – I apologize. And I didn't mean to sound, just now, like I was not being supportive." Steele didn't say anything as Laura continued, "If you really want to leave, then we'll leave. But Rojas apologized, and apart from your anger which hasn't subsided yet, there's no reason _not_ to take this case, is there?"

"Fine – we'll take the case, then. Rojas is more than a little unsavory, in my opinion, but we'll accept this case."

"And you'll behave yourself? Just let's get through this in a professional manner, and not let our emotions take over."

"I'll be professional, Laura. Please don't talk to me like I'm a little boy."

"Oh dear!" Laura exclaimed, looking at the ground again. "Everything I say seems to make it worse. I didn't mean to talk to you that way, okay? Now let's go back in there and get this job started; the sooner we do, the sooner we can go home." She smiled at him and tried to diffuse some of the tension between them, but Remington was still irate, and followed her silently back into Mike Lindstrom's office.

Laura addressed the two men, "Mr Lindstrom, Señor Rojas – we've discussed things and we think we might be able to help. The Remington Steele Agency will therefore accept this case, and do it's best to recover the stolen Stradivarius. And Señor Rojas: about that ten thousand dollar fee? A check will do – I have a pen if you need it."


End file.
